


Double Back

by stephanericher



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 11:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Sirius couldn’t have made another choice.





	Double Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EssayOfThoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/gifts).



> "Something/anything covering the brothers' dynamic before/during/after Hogwarts. I'd especially love something covering how Sirius (by then moved out of Grimmauld) learned about Regulus becoming a Death Eater, his immediate response, etc."
> 
> I'm really glad to have gotten the opportunity to dig into this relationship/dynamic. Definitely a lot of complicated feelings there, so hopefully I was able to capture some of them well. Thanks for the prompt!

The first time Sirius had made bacon on his own, he’d lit a fire with his wand under the pan and left it to sit on the stove. Only a moment, while he’d tried to assess the rest of the Potters’ kitchen. Large, empty for the time being, full of other ingredients, a full continental breakfast, some left for James if he was lucky (enough for Mr. and Mrs. Potter, obviously, but, well, James had refused to get up so it was his loss). The smell and the sizzle had seemed just right; Sirius had begun to rummage for the eggs.

When he’d turned around, eggs clutched, four in one large palm, the smell had already turned unpleasant. Smoke unfurled from the pan like the photography negative of fog in a crystal ball (and, like the fog, always too late when you see it). He’d eaten the burnt bacon anyway, out of pride, let it crunch and snap between his teeth, a sick sort of breaking, like tree branches falling.

It comes to mind, somehow, pulled out of his memory—was it really just a year ago and change—and how his mind goes to that, a silly throwaway, his sixteen-year-old self, sitting unburdened on the Potters’ kitchen floor with bacon crumbling in his fingers and four eggs sitting beside him, ragged toenails, when he tries to place the snapping inside of him, nearly makes Sirius laugh. Some kind of coughing bark comes out instead (and, yeah, maybe he should just be a dog, where emotions are simpler, thoughts are straighter, and he can chase his own tail and fall asleep on Remus’s bed and mess up his neat blankets). Regulus is a Death Eater, and all he can think about is how it makes him feel like fucking bacon.

Not that Sirius was much of a brother. Apparently, since Regulus is a fucking Death Eater.

He had to have known. He’s heard the rumors, but they attach themselves to any Slytherin of a certain age, certainly all of Sirius’s cousins and cousins’ cousins, Snivellus and his crowd, half their hulking quidditch team—but they’re like that anyway, obsessed with how many degrees of inbred purity there is to their blood, tossing slurs like flobberworms ripped up from a garden. Sirius’s parents, of course, obviously, the worst of them, the generation that raised the bloodthirsty blood-maniacs, bore them all with the worst recessive genes. Ancient rituals that should have shattered on stone tablets, stained spellbooks that ought to stay on shelves, people who should have died out before Hogwarts was even built.

Regulus was the good son, the one who had carried on the sick nonsense, who had begged Sirius to stop arguing with their parents, because he’d never change their minds. Their minds weren’t the only ones listening, and Regulus had never counted himself out of the discussion. And still, when Sirius had left, trunk and bags and broomstick all in his hands, for a second he’d nearly hesitated.

He shouldn’t have bothered. Regulus has made his choice.

(He could have stayed, in that house—who the fuck is he kidding? He could have taken Regulus with him—as if, as if his parents would really let him get away with taking their precious baby; they were glad to be rid of a blood traitor like that, Kreacher’s croak echoing in Sirius’s ears—he couldn’t have made another choice.)

Tonight was supposed to be just another excursion, him and James down to the kitchen, under the cloak, just like old times. They’d shoved their way out of the portrait hole, left the Map back with Peter in the dormitory—it’s another layer to the challenge, time the prefects’ rounds, bet on how long before Peter goes looking for them on the map, how many custard creams they’ll have to toss to him to get him to be quiet about not tagging along on this one. They hadn't talked about NEWTs, or James’s duties as Head Boy, or the war waiting for them just on the other side of exams, that puts all of these quote-unquote responsibilities to shame. It was all just jokes and the ugliest Slytherins, until they'd turned on stealth mode and elbowed each other even though they'd known just how to fit under the cloak through the narrowest of corridors.

Voices, up ahead, too low and measured to be first-years. Possibly worth scaring, anyway, until they'd turned the corner. Regulus, his sleeve rolled up, in the half-light.

They hadn’t needed more than that to confirm the shape of the black stain on his arm, like spilled squid ink, crude but deliberate. Sirius had nearly choked on his breath and James had grabbed him and run. The voices had stopped, but they were behind a tapestry and up the stairs before Regulus and his companion (who had it been? Sirius couldn’t even register) could make out whether anyone was standing there or not. They’d reached the portrait hole, taken off the cloak, somehow gotten in and through the common room, and back into the dormitory. Peter was gone; Remus was still out. Sirius had sunk onto his own bed.

“You did say he was a—”

“He’s my brother,” Sirius had snapped, like the jaws of a dragon.

Sirius had considered shutting the curtains around his bed, but he hadn’t. He’d shut his eyes and James had left, understanding the moment in a way Sirius doesn’t have the capacity right now to be as grateful as he should. He feels weary, ancient, like the blood in his veins has been reclaimed by some ancient ancestor with five middle names and and dirty money gathered in his arms. Like there’s no point. Regulus is a Death Eater; his parents must be so fucking proud.

Sirius hates them. Regulus had made his choice, but it’s still their fault, not that placing blame makes up for anything, but it always makes Sirius feel a little better.

It’s just the hollow crunch now, echoing into the empty space inside. No satisfaction, blame shifting and all falling into the same bucket. The tattoo writhes in Sirius’s mind, an eel, constricting Regulus’s arm. He’s going to be sick, but even the churning in his stomach doesn’t motivate him to get up. He’ll be dust first, crunched and ground by the weight of all this, the parts he'd left burning on the stove.


End file.
